


Fog

by azure7539



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Ambiguous Narrator, Gen, Supernatural Elements, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21801208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/pseuds/azure7539
Summary: He wakes up in a cold sweat, the blue light from the monitor greeting him like needles in the eyes.The file of one Commander James Bond stares back at him, still and unwavering, the spitting image of how he was in the dream.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Fog

**Author's Note:**

> For the MI6 Cafe's _**Anon Gift Exchange Prompts - Week 2**_
> 
> This hasn't been proofread. I can only pray that there aren't too many mistakes for now. I'll go back and check later.

**_One._ **

-

The clouds have fallen over the horizon, piling on top of the distant mountains like shrouds, thick and oppressing. Dense fog (or is that a mere extension of those clouds themselves) weaves over the lone road ahead, rumbling far in the distance yet so close he can taste it on his skin, a layer of anticipation building. Like static.

He doesn’t understand how he has come to end up here. But just at the edge of where the confusion of supposed reality meets the misty path beyond, stands a man.

Bond.

The Tom Ford suit shapes his body into an imposing figure, narrow waist and long legs, broad shoulders. He has his hands in those pockets, feet planted on the ground shoulder-width apart. There’s an impenetrable glint in his eyes, impossibly blue and deadly like the shards of cyanide, striking.

He wonders if Bond alone is generating this sensation of almost imposition, or if the odd prickling that shivers under his skin up the nape of his neck is something else. Something that is both Bond and everything else that makes up this rather austere landscape.

The gravel under the soles of his shoes gleamed, wet from either rain or dew, or both.

His eyes narrow, but since there doesn’t seem to be anywhere else to retreat to (he may be a bold man, but he isn’t stupid), he goes forward, strides long and confident.

By the time he reaches Bond, stopping but a short few steps away, Bond appears taller yet also smaller than he anticipated.

It just adds more to the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

But before he can say anything, Bond, or whatever this is that looks like him, beats him to it.

 _“If you come back three times,”_ he begins, the words loud and coming from everywhere even though they strung muffled in front of his moving mouth, _“you will never leave.”_

A stroke of lightning strikes closer this time, crackling behind the woolen, descending fog with washed-out, sizzling colors.

It reads like a riddle and feels like a challenge, but Bond’s features remain impassive. Immovable.

Exactly like everything else about this entire thing.

There’s a spark of recognition and comprehension igniting in the back of his mind, and he huffs a small breath of amusement, a smirk curling his lips.

It goes against everything his grandmother taught him, but then again, he’s been doing that for almost his whole life anyway. 

Things happen. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, nonetheless. Apparently so.

He steps into the fog.

-

He wakes up in a cold sweat, the blue light from the monitor greeting him like needles in the eyes.

The file of one Commander James Bond stares back at him, still and unwavering, the spitting image of how he was in the dream.

He shakes his head as though clearing that same, overpowering fog from his mind and rises to stretch, relaxing the knotted muscles in his neck.

It doesn’t take long before he’s going about his daily task of preparing for the inevitable outcome of his so-called master plan.

However, at the same time, for the rest of the day, he simply can’t stop thinking about whether or not stepping into that fog counted as one attempt already.

* * *

**_Two._ **

-

The next time he sees this place, it’s like he’s just gotten out of yet another vivid dream. There are some work to be done in the vicinity of the area, and he thinks to himself that it does no harm to pay this abandoned wilderness of a place a brief visit. Something sort of like a confirmation.

In the back of his mind, he can hear the phantom of a sigh, the same disapproving one that his grandmother would sometimes use. But he leaves it be and goes anyway.

-

_(Everything turns out just as he saw it. And the fog keeps clinging onto him like a second skin.)_

* * *

**_Three._ **

-

Fire burns bright around him like splinters of multiple nightmare and not-too distant memories jumbled together, melting and spattering in a hissing fit.

The place was a relic of the past, ruined by the passage of time, and standing in front of it, a building literally brought to its final moment of glory, swallowed in a pit of fire and destruction, he could almost hear it again. The whispers in the wind, the ghost that slithers up the spine of his neck.

_“If you come back three times, you will never leave.”_

Blood gurgles past his lips, coppery and thick, nearly blocking his airway, and he falls down with a screech of pain, primal and spontaneous.

And it’s then that Raoul realizes it was a challenge.

It’s always been a warning.

-

The fog devours him whole.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Prompt:** “If you come back three times, you will never leave.”
> 
> Some off-season spookiness lol


End file.
